


out of the darkness we reach

by the_ragnarok



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Aftercare, Alternate Universe, Attempted Sexual Assault, BDSM, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Couch Cuddles, Dirty Talk, Exhibitionism, Fetlife, Hand Feeding, Internalized Victim Blaming, M/M, Master/Pet, Mental Health Issues, Past Sexual Assault, Pet Play, Praise Kink, Risk Aware Consensual Kink, Rope Bondage, Self-Defense, Service Submission, Subspace, Suspension, background root/shaw - Freeform, bad kink consent, nonsexual kink, tail plug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-29
Updated: 2016-07-11
Packaged: 2018-06-05 07:28:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6695416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ragnarok/pseuds/the_ragnarok
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU: John is out of the army and taking an interest in the kink scene. Harold is a veteran rope top.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The workshop, according to the email John received, takes place in the Ingram Center for Tolerance and Inclusiveness. John shows up earlier and scopes the place, his training taking over, before he berates himself and walks in.

He doesn't have to do anything. The rules were very clear on that.

The rules were clear about a number of additional things: no food or drinks in the dojo. The workshop was supposed to be a safe space, although no space could be all that safe if it let John Reese in. No hitting on people, which John was fine with. And the one which made him take this meeting on when he'd already looked at and discarded others: _this is a pansexual peer-oriented rope bondage meetup_.

John isn't sure what _peer oriented_ is, but he while he's not planning on hitting on guys, "They won't make me leave for wanting to be tied up by a guy" was a pretty major bullet point on his pro list.

The Center is on the first floor of an apartment building, across from a lawyer's office. There's a cheerful laminated paper sign on the door saying "Rope Workshop!"with knot-shaped scrolling.

A woman sits next to a little table with a name list and a petty cash box. She takes his fee and tells him, "You must be John. The safety briefing is in there," she indicates a door behind her, "and it starts in five minutes. The dojo's over there." She points in the opposite direction. "No shoes, food, or cell phones allowed."

John nods and makes for the room where the briefing is. Nobody's in yet. John wedges himself into a corner seat and waits.

The first man through the door looks like an accountant who's gotten lost, with little round glasses and an honest-to-god waistcoat under his jacket. He's got a pile of papers in his hands and he takes the seat next to John, turning to him with an absent smile. Before either he or John can say anything, two more people walk into the room: a guy who looks like a geeky biker and a very pretty young woman in a white button-down shirt. The accountant smiles at them, also.

The other seats fill up quickly over the next few minutes: a smiling portly guy in a "Jedi do it with Force" t-shirt; a tall, poised woman with her hair pulled back in a sleek bun; a lean guy with a goatee; a couple, man and woman, who both have short dark hair and wary expressions.

"Is that everyone?" the accountant says. To the general murmur of assent, he says, "I'm Harold. Welcome to the safety briefing for our peer rope bondage meetup. Would you like to introduce yourselves?"

The names given run from obviously fake (unless people have taken to naming their children Pixie when John wasn't paying attention, which admittedly is possible), to the subtly fake (bearded guy says his name is Scott, and his eyes dart away briefly) to the probably genuine. Their instructor, the maybe-not-actually-an-accountant, does look like a Harold.

Maybe a bit too much like a Harold. It's got John giving him a little extra attention, just to check what happens next.

What happens next, for the most part, is a bog-standard safety briefing. The goatee guy looks visibly bored; the tall woman watches like she's mentally taking notes.

Harold's style is nice, though: not too dry, neither rushing nor wasting any time. "Put rope against the nape, not the throat."

That seems pretty fucking obvious to John. Not to the self-named Pixie, who raises her hand and asks, "What does that mean?"

Harold glances around, and for a second John thinks Harold might ask him to volunteer to be demonstrated on. All Harold does, however, is produce some rope from between their chairs, showing on himself: "You can have rope come out from under the shoulder, around the nape, then back down again." He unwinds it and sketches it the other way around. "Putting it like this, so there's weight on the throat, is a good way to get asphyxiated."

John chuckles, but it dies down when he realizes he's the only one amused.

Harold moves oddly. "An old injury," he says, when covering potential risks of nerve damage. "Not from play, before anyone asks."

"So you didn't even get to have fun first," John mumbles before he can stop himself.

Harold's eyes rest on him then, cool and blue. "Indeed," Harold says, after a moment, and the group titters.

John listens to the rest with half an ear. He knows a bunch about the dangers of getting tied up, anyway, had a bunch of those things happen to him in much less tame circumstances than this staid little meeting.

"All right," Harold says, laying his papers down. "Everyone can go ahead to the dojo." John gets up when Harold adds, "John, if you mind staying back a moment?"

John stays in his chair, watching the rest of the group file out.

"I apologize for keeping you," Harold says, "but we need to be very strict about safety - insurance reasons, you see, as well as taking care with our members' wellbeing. You seemed not to be paying attention towards the end. Would you mind answering a few questions to put my mind at ease?"

John smirks. "Sure." Even only half listening, he can recall the information easily: his training is good for that much.

Harold nods stiffly. "Alright. In that case: as a rope rigger, what would you need to ask the bottom before tying them up?"

The words come easily to John's tongue. "Relevant medical information, any triggers, get consent for touching the places I'd need to touch to tie them up."

Harold keeps his eyes on John. "And what does the bottom need to communicate to the top, during the scene?"

That one, John's less certain about: there wasn't a ready list in the material, so he has to go over what he remembers, process. "If they feel like they're about to faint, or are dizzy or feeling loss of sensation or numbness anywhere."

Harold reluctantly nods, his mouth compressing. "Alright," he says. "Let's join the others."

~~

The so-called dojo is a communal space marked off with tape, with couches moved off to the sides and foam mats on the floor. At the other end of a room there's a side table with coiled bunches of rope in different colors and glossy magazines with pouty women tied up on the covers.

John intends to reach for a serviceable, unremarkable coil of jute, but his hand instead is drawn to blue, sleek-looking rope. It's incredibly soft in his hands.

"Oh, that's the bamboo/silk blend," says a woman with red hair behind him. She's got her hands full of black rope with copper glinting through its weave. "It doesn't hold a knot as well, you may want to pick something easier if you're just starting out, but you can't rival it for texture."

It's stupid. It's going over his clothes in any case, and that's if he can even get somebody else to tie him. John probably should pick something else, and yet he can't let go. He keeps rubbing his thumb over the rope.

Across the room, people divide into vague groups. The woman who manned the register is demonstrating single- and double-column ties, which John already knows, even if he has more experience in duct-taping people to things than in carefully tying them up with rope. Two couples work independently: in both of them, the man does the ropework on the woman. The red haired woman is doing something to her leg that looks like crochet.

John sits down and practices knots on his own legs. He figures it can't hurt.

Even just doing it to himself is unexpectedly nice. He likes the pressure, the feel of rope sliding under his hands, the satisfaction when a knot tightens correctly. Their instructor's "Well done!" when John perfectly executes a lark's head knot should feel condescending, or at least irrelevant. Instead, it makes John's ears feel warm.

Once everyone has a grip on the basics, they're back under Harold's instruction. "I'll be doing a basic chest harness," he says. "Grace, here, will help me demonstrate." The redhead waves at them cheerfully.

The newcomers align themselves into pairs, and John is left with goatee guy - Scott - who gives him an appalled look and says, "Uh, I get that this is a pansexual thing, but I'm straight."

Harold gives Scott a frosty look. "Bondage doesn't have to be remotely sexual."

Scott still looks faintly incredulous, so Grace shifts forward. "I'll let you practice on me," she tells Scott, then addresses John: "Would you mind letting Harold demonstrate on you, and getting to do it yourself later?"

"Sure," John says, faint and light-headed. He has a hard time not staring at Harold's hands.

Harold has his jacket off, his shirt sleeves crisply rolled back to show his forearms. His vest is subtly patterned, quality fabric. He beckons John close. "Rigging this will be easier if I can put my arms around you," Harold says, "but it's possible not to, if you'd rather not."

John swallows. "It's fine."

He feels Harold's hands on his spine, at the center of his back. "First we hold the double folded rope," Harold says, then reaches around John, winding the rope around his chest, then pulling it taut.

The rope doesn't dig into John's skin, but it's not loose, either. Harold talks about keeping even tension, about letting one hand feed the rope as the other hooks it into the existing lines. He tells the other students that they can ask their subjects to turn around, rather than reaching around them, but doesn't do so with John: all John has to do is stand and let Harold work.

Finally Harold has rope criss-crossing John's chest, and has tied the end securely over John's back. "Now, I have more rope," Harold says, casually holding it like a lead, "and I need to figure out what to do with it."

John finds himself wondering if Harold couldn't just... keep the rest of the rope. Hold it. John would make sure he isn't in the way of anything, just so long as Harold keeps holding him.

Instead, what Harold does is weave the rope into a complicated pattern on John's back, his fingers brushing over John's shoulder blades as he works, gentle, impersonal touches that leave John wanting to shiver.

Too soon for John's liking, Harold says, "You're done. If you want a picture, you can go take it in the other room."

John shakes his head. He'd kind of like to sit down, mostly. He lets Harold undo the ropes from around him: it feels cold, somehow, like Harold is taking off a wool coat rather than a few strands of rope.

Then there's rope pressed into John's hand - a coarser one than the blue he'd been wrapped in, and the pretty girl who called herself Pixie looks up at him. "Would you mind tying me up?"

John's conscious mind hasn't been following Harold's words, but between memory, training, and seeing others around him he can suss out the generalities. He doesn't dare put his arms around Pixie like Harold did with him; instead, she turns around at his direction, letting him wind the rope around her.

Tying her isn't bad. It isn't what he wants, either, but he can distantly see the appeal. She's warm under his hands, moving when he directs her. She feels as fragile as holding a songbird in his cupped palms, but she's letting him touch her.

John suspects most other men in the room would be overjoyed, but for himself, he feels dismayed and slightly concerned.

When he finishes, though, she thanks him, smiling with genuine delight. If John weren't trying very hard to let himself reach for what he needs, rather than what he thinks he might be able to have, he thinks he could have wanted her.

~~

John spends the rest of the workshop without participating. Nothing really seems to penetrate, but nobody seems to mind him sitting quietly in the corner and watching.

Afterwards, he walks slowly outside while everyone is saying their goodbyes and coiling up leftover rope. He feels a little guilty for not helping with cleanup, but he thinks it's probably for the best.

There's a bench a little way away. John sits down, blankly looking at the street ahead.

Moments pass. A light drizzle starts. John should probably go.

John stays.

He startles at the sound of an umbrella opening.

"Is there a reason you're sitting here?" Harold sounds cross, but he sits beside John, heedless of the wet bench under them.

John looks down at his hands. He shakes his head.

After a few moments more, Harold sighs. "Oh, drat. I should have paid more attention." John hears fabric swishing around, and then there's something touching John's fingers.

It's a water bottle. "Drink," Harold says, authoritative.

John, who's futilely been trying to get himself to care enough to move, manages to unscrew the cap and gulp without another thought.

"Now come with me," Harold says, and stands up. He hands John the umbrella, and John follows him, unthinkingly angling the umbrella to keep the rain off both of them.

~~

Harold takes them to a coffee shop nearby, dimly lit and all but abandoned, slides into a booth in the back. He orders tea and asks John what he wants, ordering a hot chocolate when John stays silent.

"If you don't like it," Harold says, once the waiter is gone, "you can order something else when you feel up to it."

John shrugs. Putting words together is a struggle, and he makes himself do it. "I'm not having sub-drop."

Because that has to be it. John's read about it, although he's never experienced it. Why would Harold drop everything to take care of John otherwise?

Harold gives John an irritated look. "How did you arrive by that conclusion?" His brow furrows as he talks, though, worried. "Is this some other condition? You should really disclose--"

"I don't have any conditions," John forces out. "I'm fine." The words are instinct, rote, and saying them make John flinch from himself.

Harold's glare fades entirely in favor of concern, but to John's gratitude, Harold doesn't say anything.

Eventually, John manages to remember how to properly speak. "I'm not fine." Harold already knows that much from finding John not having enough sense to get out of the rain. "But it's not your fault, or your responsibility. It's just...."

The words melt away from John's mouth: the last few months, the night terrors, the times when he finds sudden tears on his face and doesn't know why. John doesn't have a name for what's wrong with him, his therapist says labels wouldn't do him any good. All John knows is that he is too broken to be a soldier anymore.

And now, it turns out he's also too broken to get tied up for fun, even in the most controlled, safe circumstances.

"I don't know what it is," John concludes, lamely. "But it isn't sub drop."

Harold gives him a long look. Then he shrugs. "All right. What do you need?"

Before John can answer, the waiter is back, setting a mug of hot chocolate in front of John. It smells good, deep and warming. Harold sips his tea and nods at the waiter, who takes off.

"I don't need anything." John's fingers want to wrap around the mug. "I'll be fine soon."

"I'm sure you will be. Will me leaving you alone be the easiest way to achieve that?"

Lying to this man ought to be easy. And yet, John opens his mouth and what comes out is a quiet, "No."

Harold nods grimly. "Alright. What, then?"

The question, John letting himself actually try to come up with an answer, feels like being hit in the solar plexus. John hunches. "I don't know." It's true, and yet it feels incredibly rude to say, when Harold is going to all this trouble to help.

Harold, however, doesn't seem perturbed. "I could suggest some common practices and see whether they work," he says. "For a start, you should drink."

Resisting the order just sounds like too much work. John drinks. Harold smiles at him: it's an odd expression, a sudden vulnerability in an otherwise impenetrable face.

"Physical contact is also commonly in use."

From that, John flinches. "I don't need that."

Harold regards him curiously. "I wouldn't make you." His voice is a little too gentle.

It makes John bristle. "Maybe you should be worried about the other way around." He reaches across the table, covering Harold's hand with his own: Harold's fingers are still chilled, despite the tea cup. John caresses Harold's fingers, smiles his killer's smirk.

Instead of moving away, though, Harold turns his hand over and loops his thumb and forefinger over John's wrist. "As it happens," Harold says, barely audible over the rush of blood in John's ears, "I'm not. I'm also willing to provide closer contact, if you'd like that."

John pulls away slowly, and Harold lets him. He moves out of his seat and across the booth like a man sleepwalking. When he sits back down next to Harold, his skin aches like it's thawing.

Harold draws John close, puts his arm over John's shoulders. "There you go," Harold says. "Was that so difficult?"

_Yes_. Instead of saying so, John closes his eyes and greedily soaks in Harold's warmth.

~~

The civilian life is treating John okay. Certainly it could be treating him worse: he has a job, an apartment. The shop owner down the street nods at John when he goes in to buy milk and bread.

John's job is security, working the night shift. He never had trouble falling asleep when he needed to, so there's no issue of sleep lag or staying awake on the job. He's alone on the shift, standing at a booth, waiting to see the rare headlights of a car coming up, having a short brisk exchange, and letting the people in. There's never any conflict. There's never any conversation longer than two sentences.

In his free time, John reads, and he watches porn.

It's embarrassing, dispiriting; it's what makes him get out of bed in the evening. He fast forwards through a lot of it, wonders uncomfortably whether the heavily made up women wielding the whips really want to be there at all.

Porn where they're both men is... easier. There's lots of military kink, which makes John twitch and not in a good way. But there are little snippets, fragments: a cruel, affectionate smile from a dom, a sub's ecstatic gasp.

Maybe it would have been different if John were jerking off while watching all that porn. He isn't, he's not twenty anymore. He does get horny, and gets off, pretty early in the porn-watching game.

And then he keeps watching, desperate for something he doesn't know how to name.

He finds, eventually, some better produced porn, one that has interviews with the performers afterwards. John watches those, too, mesmerized by the shift in the performers: just... people, laughing and smiling, arms around one another, talking about what an opportunity this was, instead of swearing and sweating and crying.

John wonders which state is more genuine.

It puts him on an awkward scavenger hunt, from porn to interviews to personal blogs. He reads, feels like a creepy stalker, and keeps reading. There's complexity there, which the cynical part of him is only surprised by when he encounters instances of what seems like genuine pleasure.

A lot of those are posts by submissives, talking about what they find in being hurt, humiliated. John finds himself first reading these obsessively, then skimming them, impatient for evidence that somebody has a genuine desire for the opposite position.

That's ridiculous. Of course some people get off on controlling others, hurting them. God knows John has seen plenty evidence of that.

What takes John a while to admit is that that's not what he wants. He wants... God, just thinking it makes him want to cringe: the care, the control without pain or humiliation.

At that point, is it really control at all? It hurts him, thinking he might want to submit; but telling himself the opposite - that he's not a submissive really, that he can't want to submit without wanting to be hurt or humiliated, that hurts worse.

Before she cut him loose, John's therapist told him that he needed to pursue his joy. "You deserve to be happy," she said, pressing her hands over John.

John tolerated the contact and smiled and nodded. He didn't believe her, but he was going to try anyway.

~~

John doesn't really remember when he found Fetlife. Sometimes during his binge-reading of relevant blogs, maybe, or perhaps somebody mentioned it in a post-production interview. It doesn't matter.

Fetlife is how John found the bondage workshop, and it's where he's now looking for another workshop. New York is big, with a shitload of events and organizations. There has to be somewhere else where John can get tied up without having to face Harold again.

Some traitorous part of John wants to pretend there aren't options, that John has to get back to _that_ workshop. That part makes some salient points: that Harold's workshop is the one that felt safest to John's instincts, that he liked the people and the general vibe.

That he likes _Harold_.

And that's why John has to find somewhere else. Harold is clearly a veteran, well-enmeshed in his little community. Just as clearly, Harold is an extremely capable top, and a kind man. Harold must be in a committed relationship already: in fact, it's likelier he's in several ones, Harold's own harem of people who want him to tie them up. And then probably--

John cuts that line of thought up before his brain can offer exactly what it is Harold would do to people once he's tied them up outside of a workshop designated as a safe space. He grimly moves on, looking for other places to get tied up.

He finds it pretty quickly. This one has a higher cost of admission than Harold's workshop, and a little online form that needs to be filled out. The note for the next meeting has a post-script in read noting, "Pay attention! In the next session, we're honored to have Shibari Master Aviary with us. Beginner instruction is cancelled in favor of Master Aviary teaching whatever he would like."

John shrugs and fills out the form. Worst case, he can sit in the corner again.

~~

The new workshop's setup seems unconductive to people sitting out.

It's hosted in a converted loft, the walls painted black with little lights installed in them. The floor is glittery. It feels like a small night club with the music dialed down.

"Do you like the place?" the host asks John. His name is Logan, "Or you can call me RopeCzar, everyone does. But Logan is fine, too." Right now he's showing John around, pointing out the ceiling hooks, which can apparently support weight of up to 750 lbs. each.

At a loss, John says, "That sounds like a lot."

Apparently that was the right answer, since Logan nods vigorously. "No expenses spared. It's really hard to get a place that lets you do suspensions - I mean, nowadays everyone is like, oh we should start our own rope meetup!" He shakes his head. "But you need space, and you need, like, the _feeling_ \- man, this is _art_ , I feel like doing this in a converted workhouse really detracts from what you're doing." He pauses, and amends, "Okay, I guess a converted warehouse could work. If it's the _right_ converted warehouse."

A part of John is working independently, putting together information about Logan. He's pretty sure that five minutes with an internet connection will tell him everything he needs to know about the guy's real life identity: not so many people have the means to buy a New York loft to support their hobby.

The rest of John is trying to keep up the appearance of being social. Which, luckily, isn't hard: Logan can keep the conversation going all by himself, only needing small bits of input from John.

"So we have an ishidaki - I bought this one from this guy in Japan, really authentic, and of course the bamboo poles, and we have some coconut fiber for real punishment bondage... Have you ever used that?"

John shakes his head. Talking about the silk rope from the other night seems like it would be a misstep.

That gets Logan's attention. "Oh, man, you gotta - the way it makes the rope bunnies squirm, it's _fantastic_. We have the original too, shipped straight from-- wait." Logan's brow furrows. "You didn't say, are you a rigger or a bunny?"

Calling himself a _bunny_ would feel incredibly stupid, but pretending he's a top wouldn't make for a very fun evening, either. "I'm more into getting tied up," John says.

"Oh!" Logan's eyes widen. "Oh, I got you pegged all wrong." He pauses, chuckles, then says, "Well, can you blame me? Look at you, you practically ooze masculinity."

That just makes John feels like he needs to shower. "Sorry," he says, lamely.

"No, no, not at all!" Logan waves his hands. "That's great, we hardly ever get male bottoms, especially big butch ones." He stops, eying John speculatively. "Hey, would you mind if I tied you up?"

John's instincts are battle-honed, and he trusts them. They tell him Logan isn't going to seriously harm him.

He doesn't particularly _like_ Logan, either, but maybe it's time for John to lower his standards.

"Sure," John says.

Logan brightens. "That's amazing!" Then his head whips around. "Oh my God, it's Master Aviary, I gotta go. Talk to you soon!" He gives John finger-guns, then disappears.

It's getting more and more crowded in the loft. The workshop has easily twice as many people as Harold's, and most of them have arranged themselves into pairs. Apart from one pair with a female rigger, the bottoms appear uniformly women, most of them younger than John. The male tops are closer to John's age, and all of them are white.

John's starting to understand why Logan would assume what he did, even as John's palms start sweating a little bit.

Then the crowd parts, and Logan walks through it calling out, "Make way for Master Aviary!"

Behind him, Harold walks hunched and visibly uncomfortable.

John curses under his breath.

~~

The pattern Harold shows at this meeting is much more intricate than the chest harness he'd demonstrated on John. Grace is his subject here, and she contributes her own comments as he works on her; next to John, a top rolls his eyes every time Grace speaks.

If Harold or Grace notice this, they don't say anything, and soon enough the other riggers are occupied trying to reproduce Harold's work on their respective bottoms.

John stands there, feeling awkward and looking for an escape path, when Logan finds him again.

"There you are!" Logan looks so genuinely happy to see John that John smiles a little at him. "Okay, can I try that on you? I bet you'll look amazing."

John ducks his head. It's just a random compliment, for fuck's sake. It shouldn't get to him like that.

And yet it does, making John a little less cautious when he follows Logan to one of the mats on the floor.

The rope Logan uses is red and slightly stiff, digging a little into John's muscle. The knots he ties are solid, though, and Logan's careful to work slowly so the end of the rope doesn't snap against John as he cocoons him.

The knotwork is intricate, thorough. John has his hands tied behind his back, and then he's hogtied, ankles connecting to wrists, and Logan says, "Time to pull you up."

It hurts, his weight pressing down against the rope, but John knew it would before he agreed to this. He breathes slowly, carefully. It's not that painful; John can definitely take it.

Apparently some aren't as stoic: he can hear people near him gasping, crying out, somebody frantically going, "Down, take me down!"

The last makes him frown, stir. "Is she okay?"

"Who?" Logan's pupils have blown wide, looking at John.

At John's other side, somebody says, "She's fine. She's been taken down and she's being cared for."

Because of how John is tied, he literally can't turn his head. He can recognize Harold's voice, though.

"Isn't he nice, Harold?" Logan strokes John's flank, and the giddy pride in his voice does things to John's stomach. "Look at him, his first time suspended and not even a peep."

"Hm," Harold says, in a way that sounds ominous to John.

"Yeah," John says, forestalling whatever Harold might've had to say. "I'm good."

"Are you?" Harold sounds skeptical, but he doesn't push. "All right. Have fun."

Fun isn't exactly how John would describe how he's feeling. It hurts, although not enough to matter, and is uncomfortable besides: John would say something, but he's pretty sure his discomfort is part of the point. At least Logan isn't using that coconut rope.

Logan strokes John's side again, a careful touch. "You look really amazing like this."

It's good that the rope supports John's weight. He doesn't have anywhere to sag into.

"You know, I'm usually not into guys." Logan is still touching John; now he puts some of his weight onto John, making the rope press deeper. "But you... God, you'd totally suck my dick like this, wouldn't you?"

There's something going on in John's chest, complicated and unpleasant. There's also something going on in John's pants, his dick urgently pressing against his zipper. John grunts.

Logan is still talking. "I mean, technically this event is supposed to be bodily fluids free, but then again, I make the rules. I think you merit an exception."

Fingers brush against John's cheek, and without thinking, John turns his face to nuzzle at them.

"Yeah." Logan's voice goes rough; he sounds hypnotized. "I'm gonna--"

There's a snap and a scream, and Logan startles, cursing. John remains where he is, swaying gently, as Logan runs towards the source of the noise.

Next to John, a gentle cough sounds. "This is Harold," Harold says. "Would you like me to take you down?"

In the distance, Logan screams, "It's supposed to take 750 lbs, how did you manage to break it?"

"I think you might as well," John says.


	2. Interlude: Grace

Going to Logan's shebangs always leaves Grace a little depressed. She lets herself slump against Harold's side once they're back in their favorite diner. "Remind me that queer ladies exist."

Harold puts an arm over her shoulder. "As you haven't vanished in a puff of logic, I assume they still do."

She giggles. "God, we should have a creed. The Ten Queerope Commandments." Harold stiffens a bit at her side, but then he always goes a little odd around her deism. "Number one: queer ladies exist. Number two: bondage doesn't have to be sexual."

"Number three," Harold supplies, voice dry as ever, "people are not obligated to one role alone."

She bites him lightly for that. "Like you'd know, you big lump of normativity."

"Excuse you, I believe the normative thing here is your _face_ ," Harold says, and Grace breaks into outright guffaws.

Then Harold really stiffens, straightening up in his seat. "Oh, for heaven's sake," he mutters, sounding distraught.

Grace sobers up. "Harold? What is it?"

Harold isn't listening. He gently disengages from her, only pausing as he gets up from his seat to ask, "Would you mind terribly if somebody joined us?"

"Go ahead," Grace says, baffled. She'll pit her ability to tolerate a given random person against Harold's any day.

She is a little wary, if intrigued, when Harold comes back dragging the guy who bottomed for Logan.... John? Jake?

"I remember you," she says, still trying to find his name. "You liked the silk rope."

He ducks his head, ears pink in the light. Interesting: especially given the way Harold's gaze catches on the guy's face.

_Very_ interesting.

"Yeah," the guy says, offering her his hand to shake. "I'm John."

Well, that's kind of him. "That's kind of you," Grace says, since she believes in rewarding social practices she likes. "I am the worst with names, honestly. Mine's Grace, in case you're the same."

He smiles, small and enigmatic. "I remembered that. You're a memorable person."

She giggles again. He gives her a good vibe. She barely ever plays with men anymore - Harold being something of a legacy thing, for her - but she might be willing to make an exception for John. She does like a sub who knows how to melt, and men who do that well are rare.

"We're just ordering," Harold says, which is weird. They usually don't eat on these nights out, but he gives her a pleading look so Grace goes along with it.

Oh, well. There's never a wrong time for pancakes.

Piling weirdness on top of weirdness, when the waiter comes, Grace notes that Harold has to stop himself from ordering for John. Harold catches himself well, but Grace has known him for a very long time.

What's even more curious is the way John looks at Harold before ordering for himself, halting and unsure. And then the way Harold's fingers twitch when John orders the lasagna, like Harold's itching to tell him the carbonara is much better.

"So," Grace says, once the waiter is gone. "Did we lose another one to the embrace of the Czar?"

John chokes a little on the water he's drinking. "Ah, what?"

Harold glares at her. "There's room for more than one peer rope bondage workshop in the city," he says.

She snorts. "You can drop the party line, Harold. It's not very _peersome_ to have one mega-dom tie up his house bunny while everyone watches and learns, is it?"

Harold gives her a pained, betrayed look. Graces answers with an innocent smile.

"Is peersome a word?" John says.

"Yup!" Grace turns her smile on him. "I just made it up."

"We don't need to return here if you dislike it so much," Harold says, desperately trying to route the conversation away.

Grace snickers. "No, we couldn't. Logan has all the best toys."

That line usually makes Harold rolls his eyes. It doesn't, however, usually make him look murderous. "He should keep to hoarding inanimate objects until he can treat humans with respect."

At that, John looks up sharply. He asks Grace, "Did Logan say anything rude to you?"

"No more than usual," Grace says, baffles.

Then the food arrives, and the conversation is halted. John eats like he's starved; Harold quietly orders a focaccia and sets it next to John while the latter is inhaling his food, and suddenly Grace understands.

"Oh, hey, try this," she says, passing John her fruit shake. "It's really nice."

John's sip empties half her drink, and he disengages, looking mortified.

Grace waves it off. "Harold will buy me another, wouldn't you, dear? He's richer than God," she tells John confidingly.

Harold's mouth purses, but he doesn't deny it. Grace raises her eyebrows at him, filling with glee as Harold's eyebrows bunch together like unhappy caterpillars.

On impulse, she paws at John's hand. "I'm cold. Come cuddle me."

John, hilariously, flushes and darts a look at Harold, who makes his ridiculously false _I am entirely uninvolved_ face and says, "You two are consenting adults who can make their own decisions regarding who to cuddle."

Gratifyingly, John does switch seats. Grace happily crowds into his space: she's a self-professed cuddleslut, and he's just so _tall_. It's extremely satisfying, especially the way his breathing gets slower and more even when she stays pressed close.

Plus, she wasn't lying about being cold, although she did omit to mention that she has a sweater in her backpack.

Once they're done eating, Harold excuses himself. Grace knows he's going to pay the check, and for herself she's fine with it - considers it corporate subsidy of her art - but John might not be.

Then John takes a long, wistful look at Harold and quietly tells Grace, "You're very lucky," and Grace decides John is probably not going to mind.

It's going to be best for everyone involved if she disabuses him of any ill-conceived notions, though. "I'm not romantically involved with him," she tells John. "Or like, kink-ically involved. I mean, we scene every now and then? But just casually. As friends."

John blinks. Then he says, "Then you're lucky to have a good friend. Both of you are." His arm tightens briefly around her, and Grace leans into him, smiling.

They're comfortable like this, even if Harold is delaying longer than expected. Then John asks, abruptly, "You do that a lot? Casually scene with people?"

"Sure." Grace wants to lean back, get the look on John's face, but she doesn't want to spook him. He is not the first newbie sub she's had to reassure, though she wonders what in particular he's worried about.

"Do you ever get...." John hesitates, then whispers, "sub drop. Just playing with a stranger?"

Grace's eyebrows rise. "I generally don't," she says, "but that's because I know the kind of care I need, and I absolutely make sure I get it when I need it. I can definitely need it with a stranger - in fact, I usually need it more, then. With people I've known for a long time, it can be...." she hesitates, not wanting to mislead him. "Not less intense, but in a different way, you know? For me, needing aftercare is about fear, and safety. The safer I feel, the less of it I need." She shrugs. "But of course everyone is different."

John is quiet and still. Grace finds herself trying to telepathically beam, _Stay away!_ at Harold. She just knows John is going to clam up tight the second Harold shows up.

"Different how?" John says, and before Grace can begin to enumerate the ways, he adds, "Nobody gets sub drop from doing a demo in a workshop, do they?"

"Oh, honey," Grace says, the endearment unintentionally slipping out. "Of course they do."

John freezes. "Wait. Really?"

Grace sighs. "Sub drop is basically a response to really strong emotional stimulus. For a lot of people, just doing anything related to kink can do it: the entire reason they're even pursuing this has to do with all this, like, life-altering, emotional, deep-seated stuff. So you can get them from basically any type of scene that makes you feel anything, depending on how much you're prone to it." She squeezes his hand. "And no matter how prone to it anybody is, that doesn't make them weak, or, or wrong. It's just how they are, and it's fine. It means they need aftercare. That's all."

John goes all pliant at her side then, his muscles unbunching. He says, "Oh," softly.

Grace tests the waters, lets her weight rest more fully against him. He takes it, his cheek brushing against the top of her head. "Did you park nearby?" she asks. They might need to accompany him there; Harold will have to come up with an excuse, she's fresh out.

For a moment, John is quiet. Then he says, "I took the bus."

Well, that won't do. "Do they even run this late?" Before he answers, Grace adds, "Would you mind if I called you a cab? Fare's on me."

John's gearing up to answer, and Grace decides to be ruthless.

She twists up to look at him, opening her eyes wide and beseeching. "Please? I'll just feel a lot better, knowing you made it home okay after I kept you here this late."

John visibly crumbles. "Sure, okay."

He doesn't even ask what about the tab when she accompanies him outside and orders him a taxi. She takes that as further evidence she did the right thing.

When she comes back inside, Harold's at the table. Grace sits down and holds her hand out. "You owe me twenty dollars."

Harold forks over the cash without complaint, and adds, "I owe you considerably more than that."

"Damn right." Grace squishes in next to Harold. "Cuddle me and tell me about him."

Harold obliges, throwing an arm over her shoulders once more. "I don't know very much," he says, "his profile is rather sparse. I suspect previous military service. He seemed to react a bit when I mentioned triggers and PTSD in the briefing. He's very careful when topping; bottoming seems to come as a relief, to him. And he doesn't take enough care with himself."

The last sentence sounds really judgemental, and it is, but Grace has known Harold for long enough to note the frustrated worry beneath.

It doesn't erase the judginess, though, and Grace elbows him gently for it. "It's not his fault. Fucking toxic masculinity."

Harold holds his breath for a moment, then lets go of it along with the knee-jerk rebuttal he'd probably made in his mind. "It's not," he admits. "It's toxic nonetheless, and the question remains of what to do about it."

"Are you going to hit on him?" Grace asks, because beating around the bush will do neither of them any favors.

After a short pause, Harold says, "I'm conflicted. You've seen Logan tonight. That is not the sort of person I want to be."

Grace snorts. "There's a difference between learning how to be good at something so people will want to do it with you and deliberately putting yourself in a position of power so you can fuck with people when they're helpless."

Harold, when Grace angles herself to look at him, still seems torn. "John is very vulnerable," Harold says quietly. "All the more so because he doesn't think he is. It's not even that he thinks himself invincible: he seems to think it doesn't _matter_ if he gets hurt."

"Well, there you go," Grace says, because it's too neat to pass up. "Give him a reason: tell him there are people who care about him and don't want to see him hurt. What?" she says to Harold's pointed look. "It's true already and you know it. I'm not even talking about you."

Harold thaws visibly. He kisses her forehead. "You're incredible."

She snuggles into him. "I know. You should've married me when you had the chance." This is nice, too, that they can laugh about their ill-fated relationship.

His fingers brush over her hair. "The queer ladies of the kink scene would never have forgiven me."

He drives her home. When she leaves the car, he says, "I'm surprised you haven't already bullied me into asking him out on a date."

"Oh, don't worry," Grace says, grinning. "I have a much better plan."


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Major thanks to Toft and Code16 for cheerleading and comments, and to neverwhere for lightning-fast beta! <333

John hasn't received many - or, in fact, any - messages on Fetlife thus far. It's something of a surprise to come back from work in the morning to two new messages.

One of these is from RopeCzar, and John feels himself blush, remembering last night. The other is from ShowMeTheMonet. John clicks that one first, puzzled.

_Hi!_ the message goes, _It's Grace, we hung out after Logan's thing the other night. I'm throwing a play party in a couple of weeks, and I'd really love to see you there. Let me know if you're coming and I'll give you the deets. :)_

The message from Logan is basically the same, if a little more pompous and lacking the introduction, or the possibility John might say no. It also has a link to the event's page on Fetlife, and John clicks it, curious.

This event has a dress code: _Sexy, fetish, latex, leather or uniform!_ the page says. _Or at least classy black._ John takes a moment to imagine showing up in his past uniform - or his present one: he doubts that a security guard outfit is what the organizers had in mind, although it's both a uniform _and_ black.

John spends probably too much time after that clicking aimlessly on Fetlife. He goes into Grace's profile, which has multi-colored text in her description and declares her a sister to water and a slave to kitty-cats. There are pictures on the profile, but none of them are of her: instead, there's a sundry mix of corny visual puns, art history jokes that go right over John's head, and inspirational messages.

The latter aren't quite what John expects. _You don't have to be crazy to work here_ , one says, _It's simply a common side effect of selling your labor under capitalism!_ Another has a starry eyed puppy with the caption, _Take your meds now to make Muffin proud!_

That gets John guiltily rummaging in his rucksack, swallowing two pills dry. It's not that he forgets. It just seems wasteful to take them when the only thing they do is make him less miserable, especially on his time off when John's misery makes no difference to anyone but himself.

At the bottom of the page, Grace's last activity is writing on Aviary3141's wall. _Awesome workshop as ever!! Looking forward to next month's!_

John clicks through to that profile, which is much starker than Grace's cheerful mess of a page. The name _Harold_ doesn't appear anywhere on it. Neither does any form of _Master_ : rather, the description on top is _53 M Rigger_.

There are pictures there, too: carefully lit models tied up. Some suspended in the air, some tied up on the ground. Grace features in a lot of those, smiling. She looks lovely. There doesn't appear to be a common thread for the rest of the models: more women than men, but from what John can tell, that's probably a side effect of who's available.

And there _are_ men, more pictures of them tied up than John has seen in one place since he joined Fetlife. John studies them.

Some of the models are clothed, some are nude. Some of the men are hard and some are soft. The pictures show their genitals but don't focus on them: instead, their faces seem to be the center of attraction, showing an all too familiar spectrum of emotion.

John should really go to bed. He allows himself one last glance at Harold's profile.

There's a post dated a year ago titled _What I'm looking for in a partner_. John calls himself an idiot for clicking it.

_Since some overinvolved parties have made it clear I should be making a more proactive effort_ , it begins, _I'll make it known that I'm interested in a partner. I'm not comfortable messaging people I don't know, but if you fit the following criteria, by all means contact me and we'll see if it works:_

_\- Over forty (this is_ **not** _negotiable)_  
_\- Submissive_  
_\- Not currently in a romantic, sexual, kinky or nesting relationship_

_All other factors are negotiable and case dependent. My end goal is a committed monogamous kinky relationship, and I'd prefer one that is sexual, romantic, and nesting as well, and monogamous in all these categories._

John goes back to Harold's profile, heart in his throat. There's no present relationships marked there. He goes back into Harold's writings: there are only a few posts there, including the one he read.

Another is titled, _For the people sending me copy-paste messages:_

John hasn't received any of those, and he's a little baffled who'd send them to Harold. He clicks.

_1\. While my avatar picture, and most pictures on my account, are of women, I am not one myself. I am not bothered by this mistake; however, as such, I cannot subject you to my female supremacy, as I have none._

_2\. Writing to people without ascertaining their gender, let alone their interest in whatever specific kink you request, is generally considered bad manners. I suggest you desist._

John grins ruefully and shakes his head. The last item on the list catches his eye:

_5\. I am not comfortable receiving monetary compensation for topping; if you are compelled to bring me tribute when we meet, an ice cream cone would be a good choice. This is not, however, necessary, and if you do, I like vanilla._

_6\. (Grace, I can hear you smirking. Kindly stop.)_

The first comment is from Grace, and it says, "Shan't!!!!" From there, the conversation devolves into a discussion of topping, ice cream, and ice cream toppings.

John spends a few idle moments mentally composing a message to Harold. In the end, he tabs out of the page without writing the message, still smiling.

It's almost noon, time to eat and sleep. John wants to keep his fickle good mood at least until he goes to bed.

~~

John stands in line feeling conspicuously underdressed.

He ended up putting on his uniform pants after all - black is black, he reasoned, and he only had blue jeans and track pants apart from them - and a black t-shirt under his jacket. The club's selector, a woman in an electric blue corset, is glaring at him.

Maybe she's just annoyed for no reason. Most men in line aren't dressed much better than him; for all John knows, any of them could be subs, as well.

Somehow, he thinks most of them aren't.

The unimpressed-looking woman at the door holds back most people and eyes their outfits. John is starting to feel like turning back might be the better part of valour.

On the other hand, he's had similar thoughts several times over the last week, and this evening. That maybe he should give this up, that maybe it's not for him, the whole... getting tied up thing. And every time he did, he thought about the rope marks still on his skin.

Despite everything, just the thought of those brought a smile to his face. Not a lot of things did, these days. John figures it has to be worth fighting for, that feeling.

Then Logan turns up at his side, tugging at John's sleeve. "There you are! What are you doing, standing in line like a plebe?"

Logan drags him to the entrance, where the unimpressed woman marks their names off a list.

Inside, it's almost too loud to have a conversation. John spends a moment thinking, cowardly, that maybe it will be better not to talk with Logan, to just let the evening proceed as it will.

The thing is, there's a lot in life that's been ruined for John. Knee injuries have taken most of the fun out of jogging, and he doesn't think he'll ever be able to drive through the desert again without seeing Afghanistan superimposed over his eyelids. Even the sound of children playing tends to fade, in his dreams, into shrieks and sudden silence.

This kink thing... John likes this. He's not letting it get ruined if he can help it.

"I need to talk to you," he yells into Logan's ear. "Is there somewhere a little more quiet?"

Logan takes them into somewhere that looks like an office, a dinky room up the stairs. The thump of bass still comes in faintly through the walls. The place smells faintly like cigarettes. "What can I do for you?" Logan says, expectantly.

The words feel awkward in John's mouth, like asking his first girlfriend if he could put on a condom. "So, I kinda need, uh. Aftercare. And." He forces the rest of the sentence. "I don't want to have sex."

Logan blinks at him. "You looked pretty interested last time."

"Yeah." John really doesn't want to go into that. "Uh. I'm just... everything is kind of new, you know?"

"Sure," Logan says, slowly, like he's not sure at all. "So you want me to... tie you up and cuddle you?" He sounds incredulous.

John winces. "You don't have to."

Logan waves his hands. "No, no, I get it, gift of submission and all, you get to have boundaries, definitely. Totally fine." His smile seems a little off, though. Something in John's lizard brain stays alert, watchful.

When Logan ties him up, on the ground floor, John tenses his muscles. He tells himself it's a dumb thing to do, that he'll regret it later when Logan's swinging him off yet another beam and the knots slip.

Logan has John kneeling on that ishidaki thing, which turns out to be a board cut into spiky triangle shapes, their points digging into John's knees and calves. It's an annoying kind of pain, hard to entirely tune out. John's injuries make the position even less fun. He grits his teeth, tries to focus on the rope around his shoulders and arms and chest, half wishes Logan had also tied up his legs. 

The rope is good, even a little loose, despite the coarser weave biting into his skin. Maybe especially because of that, close, a little constricting. John could get lost in that feeling, if he let himself.

Then Logan's hand brushes over John's erection.

"Hey," Logan says, "look who changed his mind again. Up for some fun?"

"Not really." John mouth goes dry, fight-or-flight reaction tensing him up.

"Aw, hey, lighten up." Logan goes for John's button.

There's a moment where John thinks of letting Logan do it. Maybe that's just the price of admission for someone like John, the only way he can give back. John's done a lot worse than let a guy grope him.

Logan's eyes are blown wide. Tiny beads of sweat form on his upper lip. "Promise, you'll have a good time."

It's almost funny. John's heard people talk like that before. He'd always been behind the people who said it, and usually they assumed John was either going to join in or mind his own business and let them have their fun with whomever they were talking to.

Now he's on the receiving end: and maybe he deserves that, for the lives he ended, or for the times when he didn't stop this happening to others.

But John remembers the last time he played with Logan, the sub who screamed to be let off, Logan's disinterest. John remembers Pixie warm and trusting under his hands.

"Oh," John says, quietly, "I will," and then he's on his feet, the ishidaki kicked off to the corner.

Logan stares at John with wide eyes. John elbows him in the sternum and kicks his legs from under him, then kneels on Logan's chest, bowing down close to whisper in his ear. "I said no, Logan. One syllable."

Under John, Logan swallows frantically. "Yes, okay, but look--"

"I'm not finished," John says, mild and murderous. "See, what you just tried to do... You did that because you're dumb enough to think you could get away with doing it to me." John grinds his knee down, just shy of the force it would take to crack Logan's rib. "And maybe you could. I know how this goes: you have friends, you have influence. You could make my life difficult if I made it too hard to ignore it when I said no."

Logan's mouth quivers. His breaths are shallow and rapid.

John's voice goes quieter still, and yet he has no doubt Logan is making out every word, even with the music still blaring. "But consider this: I am not somebody you want to meet in a dark alley if I think you shouldn't come out of that alley again. Think about that, next time you see somebody who seems like an easy target."

He throws off the rest of the rope and gets up.

Logan staggers up next to him. "Look, okay, I get it," he says, frantic. "I wasn't man enough to take you, that's cool." He pauses. "Actually, _really_ cool, I might be kinda into this, do you wanna--?"

John kicks his ankles and Logan falls down on his face.

"Okay, that's cool too," Logan says, slightly muffled in the carpet, hand raised up at John. "Uh, see you around!"

~~

Grace's party doesn't have a dress code. John checks in just to be on the safe side. Grace replies with, "Whatever's comfortable and doesn't have holes! Unless you're into that," and an emoji John can't decypher.

Once John is there, he can see Grace must have meant it. A couple of people are dressed up interestingly - one in a very ruffly pink dress, another in a latex bodysuit - and the rest seem dressed for comfort.

Grace herself is in yoga pants and a tank top. She asks permission before hugging John, and then lets him be the first to let go. "I'm so glad you could make it," she says, sounding genuine. "I'm just starting a scene, I'd sit with you otherwise." She indicates the living room, where some people are milling around. "Make yourself comfortable. Mingle."

John settles at the corner of an empty three-seater couch. He can see the dining area from where he is, although not the whipping taking place there. The spectators are in the way. He's careful not to grimace. He turns his attention to other people in the living room itself.

One of them, a woman sitting on the loveseat in front of him, tells John, "Not your thing, huh?" She smiles wryly.

John shrugs. "I might be more interested in other things," he says, honest.

Her gaze is penetrating. She leans back slightly. John does the same. "I'm Sirene," she says, then scrunches her nose. "It sounds so silly, doesn't it?"

"You could always call yourself something else," John says. "I'm John." He leans over the coffee table and offers her his hand.

She shakes it and smiles. "Lucky you, I suppose." She sighs and shakes her head. "I don't know. A name that sounds real but isn't feels wrong, too, and God knows I can't use my real one. Grace told me her _mother_ knows about this, can you imagine that?"

Compared to some of the things John's done, his mother knowing about him getting tied up is the least of his concerns. "My parents have passed away," he says instead, brushing off Sirene's sympathy. "I don't really have any reason to hide."

It's true, he realizes after he says that. He has very little to lose: his current job might fire him, but there's no lack of security firms in the city.

Those words put a little wariness back in Sirene's eyes, which is a pity. John wishes he had something to ease her mind. "Don't Ask, Don't Tell doesn't really apply anymore," he says. He's pretty sure she hasn't missed that he was former military, but she might take the information as a peace offering since it was explicitly offered.

For a miracle, it works. Her face softens. "Afghanistan?" John nods. "Did a tour there, myself. Can't say I liked it." She tilts her head. "Adjusting can be hard."

"Yeah," John says, shortly. Suddenly he wishes he hadn't brought up that topic.

He's saved from further conversational overtures by a door opening. It's Harold, conspicuous in his three-piece suit and yet looking eminently comfortable. He nods at people, hangs his jacket on the peg next to the door.

Then he makes his way directly to John.

John's fingers subtly dig into the couch pillows. His mouth is suddenly desert-dry. He tries not to let his eyes linger for too long on Harold's hands.

"I'm sorry," he says to Sirene, a moment later. "Did you say something?"

She grins at him, knowing. "Oh, never mind. I got an answer to my question." 

It's not often John is caught so off guard, especially not by somebody he just met. He drops his head and mumbles an indistinct reply.

Behind him, Harold talks to people watching the whipping scene. John can't make out the words. His peripheral vision tracks movement, frozen in place, waiting to see if Harold will approach him.

John knows he's being an idiot. Sitting there like an adolescent with a crush, waiting for Harold as if two instances of kindness meant a connection, an obligation. Best case, Harold has no idea John hopes to speak to him. Worst case, Harold will take John aside for a short, brisk conversation explaining he has no interest in John.

That would be fair. John has no right to want more than that.

The crowd is moving - _Harold_ is moving, and then he's next to John, sitting across the couch from him.

"John," Harold says. His voice is soft; there's a hint of a smile in the corner of his mouth. "I was hoping I'd see you here."

John's heart thumps painfully. "I'm here," he says, more fumbling and awkward than he'd been as a teenager. He tries to recover with, "Glad to see you here, too."

Harold's smile broadens at that, and it warms John right down to his toes. "I was wondering," Harold says, "if you might like to play with me?"

John stares at him for a moment before he remembers to say, "Yes, of course." After that debacle with Logan, it might be better not to declare his terms up front. Logan was a petty creep, and his rejection might have stung, but John would have gotten over it.

If Harold wants him, that's worth pain, that's worth the drop afterwards. Whatever happens, John can handle it, he's sure of that.

Something flickers briefly over Harold's face, and he says, "Are you comfortable discussing this here, or would you like to go somewhere a little more private?"

Heat blossoms on John's face. He's not sure why. "Here is fine," he says, and means it. He can hear Harold perfectly well, and it's not like he's concerned about privacy.

Harold scoots a little closer over the couch. There's still a respectable amount of space between them. The movement is awkward, and John blinks and looks at Harold, who offers him a wry grin. "I'm not very spry," Harold says, with a stiff shrug. "I was hoping to tie you up, if that's alright with you?"

Whatever odd haze John broke out of when he saw Harold moving, those words plunge him right back into it. "Yes," John says, dreamy.

For a moment, Harold is quiet. Then he says, "What are you hoping to get out of the scene?"

John frowns. Harold's tone sounds candid, and yet that has to be a trick question. "You'll tie me up," John says slowly.

Harold exhales. "I understand that, of what you've tried so far, you've enjoyed rope bondage. How have you felt about other experiences? Pain? Suspension?"

John doesn't mean to wince; he blanks his face just a moment too late. "I can handle that."

"I know." Harold's voice is very gentle. John wants it to wrap around him and hold him. "But did you enjoy them? The answer can be as simple or as complicated as you want it to be, and whatever it is, it isn't wrong."

That last addition makes John's hands itch. "What do you want?"

Harold's mouth twitches. "To tie you up, as I believe I already said." His face evens out, growing serious. "Unless you decide you'd rather not, I would be happy to play with you. At this point, I need honest information about what you enjoy and what you don't so I can make the best decisions on how to run the session. I'm not evaluating you, or trying to make up my mind. I already have."

That seems a little too good to be true. John swallows. "Suspension wasn't so bad," he says. "Pain, I could do without."

Harold looks very faintly appalled. "How about we scratch both of those off the list, then," he says, "especially as Grace doesn't have suitable attachment points installed."

"Really?" John says, giddiness rising in him like bubbles in a drink. "How can she even live here?"

Harold's mouth curves. "It boggles the mind," he agrees. "Is there anything else you'd prefer to avoid?"

It seems easier, now, to say, "I don't want to have sex." But John feels compelled to add, "Not yet, anyway." Harold nods, and to John's embarrassment, he finds himself pressing on. "I. I don't have a lot of experiences with guys, or with kink. One new thing at a time, you know?"

"A very reasonable approach," Harold says. He needs to stop giving John these approving looks; they make John feel like he's floating, light-headed. "I, myself, prefer to get to know my partners better before becoming sexually involved." Harold hesitates, then adds, "Can I ask you a question? You don't have to answer. It's only for my curiosity's sake."

John shrugs. "Sure."

"Your profile registers you as bisexual, and you aren't interested in sexual activity at the moment. You seem particularly interested in submitting to men, at least according to my admittedly limited observation." Harold steeples his fingers. "Are you simply generally oriented towards men, or is there a deeper reason?"

The whipping scene is breaking up. The top, a tiny brunette, ignores the crowd to carry her bottom, a thin woman easily a foot taller, towards another room in a fireman's carry. It would be worrying if the bottom weren't giggling, delighted.

John nods towards the top. "See, I wouldn't mind a woman like her. One who could take me down, if she had to."

"That appeals to you?" Harold asks, curious.

John shrugs, uncomfortable. "It means I can let go, a little."

"You could probably knock me out without breaking a sweat," Harold points out. He doesn't seem bothered by it, or turned on. Merely stating a fact.

"You're a guy." John shrugs again. "It's different."

"Mm. How fortunate for me." His voice is so warm.

It means that when Harold goes for crisp, steely command, the change is as immediate and noticeable as a bucket of ice water coming down on John's head. "Please pay attention," Harold says.

Despite the wording, it's very obviously not a request. John finds himself snapping into alertness, the pleasant fog dissipating from his mind. "Yeah?"

Harold looks a little sheepish. "I'm sorry, I needed to be sure you're thinking clearly... One more concern." Harold's fingers pick up a bit of loose thread from the couch cushions. John's eyes settle there, on the way Harold fiddles with it, movements small and precise. "I have a tendency... Grace calls it _digging_ ; when I tie someone up in a scene, as opposed to a demo, I like to try and get in their mind, as much as I can. I've been told it can be, well, incredibly creepy, and I know I'd hate to scene with myself."

The last bit, the unthinking sincerity in it, knocks a rusty laugh out of John. "I don't know that I'd like scening with me, either," he murmurs.

Harold's face is carefully neutral when he says, "If you find the idea unpleasant, or have any topics you'd rather I stayed away from, please tell me. I will of course also do my best not to be unduly invasive, and if at any point you change your mind--"

John waves his hand, suddenly impatient. "There's nothing in here," he taps his head, "that's worth protecting." On consideration, he softly adds, "Just take care. Some questions don't have pretty answers."

"I'm well aware of the latter statement's truth," Harold says faintly. His eyes are very blue, pupils dilated, intent on John; his fingers have let go of the thread to drum gently on his thigh. "That said, I must disagree with the former."

John turns his face away and focuses on keeping this breathing even. God, he's so easy it's pathetic; he feels taken apart just from this, just from sitting on the couch an arm's length from Harold, talking.

"One more thing," Harold says. "How do you feel about affectionate, nonsexual touches?"

Instead of talking, John nods, quick and fierce. And since action seems like a better recourse than words, he closes the distance between Harold and him, tentatively folding to lay his head on Harold's shoulder.

Harold's hand comes down on the back of John's neck, guiding him, then keeping him comfortably supported there. John closes his eyes and lets out a long, shaky breath.

"If you want," Harold says, "we could do this instead." He pushes gently against John's skin, illustrating his meaning.

For a moment, John considers that. He lets himself feel Harold's warmth, the uncomplicated necessity of human contact. Then he pulls away. Harold's hand releases him without John having to say anything.

"Nah," John says, and for once the smile comes effortlessly to his face. "Let's do this."


	4. Chapter 4

Harold takes him upstairs. There are fewer people there. Most of the rooms are shut, some grunting and thumping noises coming through the doors.

"Private scenes," Harold says. "There are empty bedrooms still, if that's what you'd like."

John doesn't say anything, but he feels color rising in his cheeks. He shakes his head.

Harold smiles at him, just a quick flicker of his mouth. "I didn't think so."

He directs John into what looks like a rec room; apart from one man in an overstuffed chair, leafing through a softcover book, it's empty. "We're about to start a scene," Harold tells the man, who nods and keeps reading.

Something furtive in John is disappointed, was hoping for a more interested audience.

Before John can quash the feeling, Harold is close, quietly saying, "We'll doubtless have more come in to watch soon." He runs a hand down John's back, resting warmly above John's tailbone. "May I take off your shirt?"

John swallows. "I can do it myself."

Harold pauses. "There's another thing, actually-- I should have mentioned it sooner, but it slipped my mind." Harold glances at John and gives him a crooked smile. "Or rather, I was sloppy, and assumed when I should have asked. Do you prefer this scene to have a power exchange element, or should it be purely a sensory experience?"

John tenses the tiniest bit, wary, and Harold adds, "I would enjoy it either way, and I certainly _won't_ enjoy being concerned that I pressured you into something you don't want."

Well. When he puts it like _that_... "I want to submit," John says, so quietly it's a wonder Harold hears him.

Harold does, though. He comes closer, puts his hand over John's cheek, and John's eyes slip helplessly shut. "I'm honored," Harold says, and it should feel stupid, an empty platitude.

It feels like John is being filled up with pure light.

"Let me take your shirt off," Harold says, and now it's an order. John shudders, head bowing. Harold's fingers whisper against John's ribcage as Harold strips him out of his shirt. "Hold your hands out."

John keeps still, listening to Harold rummage. When Harold lays a coil of rope in John's hands, soft and sleek, John makes a tiny, involuntary sound.

"I take it you approve?" Harold asks, amused and fond. John nods, quick tiny shakes of his head. "I'll be aiming for constriction without painful pressure. Let me know if anything hurts, at all, for any reason."

Before John can nod again, Harold has two fingers under John's chin, directing him to gaze right into Harold's eyes. "I mean this," Harold says. "I need to know exactly how I make you feel. If you experience pain, or discomfort, it needs to be because I decided you should, not because you kept valuable information from me."

"I won't." The words feel like they're torn out of John's throat, frantic for Harold to hear him. "You'll know."

Has anything ever felt so right as the way Harold looks at him? John can't remember. "I trust you," Harold says, and John shivers. "You're being very good already, showing me so well what you enjoy."

John makes a noise again, small and cracked. He wants to kneel, suddenly, desperate for it. Even the pain would be good, something he could take for Harold.

But Harold trusts him. John draws a ragged breath. "I have knee injuries," he says, wincing, "but I want to get on my knees for you. Really want it."

"Hmm." Harold's fingertips run up John's jaw to his nape, until Harold is gripping John's hair just short of hard enough to hurt. "Thank you for telling me, John. I have other plans for you tonight."

John keeps his breaths even. It's not a rejection. It's not.

Harold tugs on John's hair, just enough to get his attention. "As it happens," Harold says, quiet and wry, "I'm prone to similar aches and pains myself. So I thought I would arrange you into an improvised backrest. So to speak."

Just like that, the ache in John's chest dissipates, like filthy water draining from an unplugged sink. It leaves him weak, dizzy. Has it really been so long since he's felt wanted, useful? He clears his throat, trying to stay present. "How do you want me?"

"Like this is excellent," Harold says, and John shivers.

Harold takes his wrist and ties the rope halfway up John's right forearm, then moves up, binding John's arm in a series of securely knotted loops. At shoulder height, Harold moves the rope across John's back and down his other arm. It doesn't look like any of the other styles he'd seen Harold demonstrate: those all started from the chest.

When John comments on that, Harold says, "If you'll forgive me for being unbearably pretentious, the art of shibari is supposed to about the mental state of the person in the rope as much - more than - it is about the physical pattern one creates." Nimble fingers work against the sensitive inside of John's elbow. "More to the point, I care more about the effect on you than I care what it looks like, and my instinct is telling me to immobilize you as much as I can."

That notion makes desire pulse low and hot in John's stomach. "Survival instinct?" he asks, half joking.

"Mm." Harold adjusts a knot, pulling the rope deliciously tight around John's shoulders. "You seem very aware of the damage you can do to others. Are you a very dangerous man, John?"

All of a sudden, it's hard to breathe. Instead of answering, John nods.

Having covered both of John's arms, Harold takes the rope from the last knot just above John's left wrist, moves it behind John's back to the stretch between two knots on John's right forearm.

"It's not my safety I'm concerned for," Harold says. He loops the rope through the stretch and passes it back across John's stomach, lacing up John's arms like a pair of boots and neatly caging John between them. "I doubt you have much desire to harm me, or anyone here for that matter."

With each pass of the rope, the hold of it on John's arms is more snug. John wishes it were tighter still, a grip strong enough to drive the air out of his lungs. "Maybe don't be so sure," he says.

This doesn't deter Harold, who keeps working as though John said nothing, only making a polite, "Oh?"

"The last guy who tied me up? I almost broke his ribs," John says.

Now Harold does pause. The look he gives John, though, is not put off in the least. "Logan?" he asks. John nods. Harold lets out a sigh. "I shouldn't tell you I'm proud of you, should I?"

It's now John's turn to say, "Oh," unprepared for how dazzled the words make him feel. He follows it up, quickly, with, "You don't know what happened. Maybe I attacked him for no reason."

Harold's eyes are knowing and sad when he asks, "Did you?"

John ends up describing the entire encounter, words choked up and halting. He concludes with, "I didn't have a reason to kick him down that second time. It just felt good to do it."

For a little while, Harold is silent. John would feel like he's facing judgement, but Harold's hands are eloquent: they linger just for a little bit after each knot they finish, as though loathe to leave John's skin.

Harold finishes with a figure eight knot resting over John's suprasternal notch. "I can't fault you for defending yourself," he says, at last. "And I think your actions were entirely understandable, although I can't commend kicking him once you were out of immediate danger. I think you can do better."

John's answering nod is sharp and quick.

Harold throws the rope over John's back and slowly walks behind him to finish securing the last of it. "You are capable of violence, which requires caution; after all, anything strong enough to help is strong enough to harm." The rope is in place, but Harold is still touching him, gently petting the space between John's shoulderblades. "And you are marvelously strong, aren't you." It's not a statement, not a question.

It's a good thing, John thinks frantically, that Harold can't see his face right now.

"You're very afraid of doing harm," Harold says, curious and calm. "But right now, you wouldn't move a muscle unless I told you to. Isn't that true?"

"Yes." God, it feels good to be told that, to know that.

Harold circles him, pushing and prodding the ropes and John's arms inside them. The knots are steady, keeping John confined without allowing the rope to tighten further, the ropes snug without biting into his skin. "Could you get out of this by yourself?"

John gives an experimental wiggle. "I'd have to dislocate something," he says, "and even then it would take me a while. My best bet would be to find something sharp and cut them off."

Now Harold is in front of him, and John sees dismay flicker on his face before disappearing into calm again. "There's no need for any of that," Harold says. "If you want to be untied, just say the word." He comes closer, touching John's cheek.

The skin of John's face feels heated, too tight.

"You've given yourself over to me," Harold says, soft and compelling. "Do you trust me to keep you from hurting others?"

John's "Yes," is more grunt than word, a necessary, reflexive reaction. Harold's hand on his face is everything.

Then John's phone beeps, the sound sharp enough to puncture the sweet little bubble that Harold put around him. Harold frowns, looking for the source of the noise. John winces. "It's just my meds reminder," he says. "Sorry, it'll stop in a second."

Harold's frown deepens. "It's very important to take your medicine on time."

John tamps down on a snarl that wants to emerge, because he _knows_ that. He can feel the phantom weight of the responsibility which Harold lifted off his shoulders looming: not yet back on him, but waiting to crash.

Before John can quite formulate a polite response, Harold says, "We can undo the rope and you can take your medicine, and then resume the scene. There is also another option, if you're comfortable with it."

Right now, the idea of a dislocated shoulder is less painful than the thought of Harold undoing his knotwork. "Let's hear it," John says.

"I could give it to you," Harold says. He's looking a little anxious. "Neither of these is any trouble, incidentally. Please choose as you wish."

John lets his head drop and takes a couple of careful breaths. "It's in my bag," he tells Harold once he trusts his voice. "Front pocket, two pills."

Harold turns around. John blinks, startled to realize that they have an audience, now: at the very front, the composed woman who taught single- and double-column at Harold's workshop produces - seemingly out of nowhere - two disposable plastic cups, one full of water, one empty.

Harold takes the pills out of John's bag, places them in the empty cup, and puts it to John's lips, tilting it as John opens his mouth. Then he gives him the water, and John swallows.

"There," Harold says. "All taken care of." John closes his eyes again, shuddering. Harold sounds so pleased. "Come, now, I'd like you to lie down on the couch."

John obeys. He raises his legs at Harold's request, giving Harold access to tie them together.

Even now, a part of John is planning. Imagining the ways he could hurt Harold, ways he could force himself out of this situation. It's quieter, though. John can almost ignore it.

With a small grunt, Harold sits on the couch, his side pressing into John's stomach. "If you needed to get out, you could,'" Harold says quietly. "And it would hurt you to do so. A great deal."

John nods.

Harold's hand brushes over his cheek. "Suppose you didn't, though. Suppose you let me keep you here, where you aren't hurting anyone, and where you make me happy."

John's eyes burn. "How can you just say that?" he whispers.

The look in Harold's eyes is full of terrifying compassion. "It's true." He keeps petting John's face, John's neck. It's unbearably good. "You're very lovely, and you've been hurt very badly." He traces the scars on John's back, fingers skipping over rope. "You're showing an immense trust, letting me do to you what I am. It's humbling. Awe-inspiring. You disagree?"

Only at those words does John realize he's been shaking his head. He stops. "I don't know."

"Shh." Harold strokes his hair. "That's all right. It's very simple: I want you to feel good, because I enjoy looking at you feeling good."

John shudders, he quakes, because everything from Harold's eyes to his hands to the tone of his voice says Harold believes what he's saying, has no doubt about it.

"Your joy is a good thing," Harold says, shuffling closer so John can still hear him when he quietly says, "I will have it. _Give it to me_ ," and with a small sob, John _does_.

He doesn't know how he does it. It feels like finding a secret door in his own mind, and it leads somewhere quiet and safe and utterly beautiful. The world is muffled, its sharp edges drawn back. Harold is there, leaning against him. Harold is warm.

John floats.

Slowly, gradually, the world comes back. John is very glad he's still tied up: he's pretty sure if he tried to move, he'd collapse.

There's nowhere to collapse to. He's lying on his side, his chest pressed against Harold's back. Harold's weight is on him, pleasant, grounding.

"It still matters," Harold says, locked in some argument John didn't hear. It's a friendly one, though. Harold's muscles aren't tensed at all. "Going from an S-weave to a Z-weave subtly throws off your--"

"Yada yada, it's like changing your keyboard halfway through coding, we heard you the first billion times," his conversation partner says. John, after a moment of disorientation, places her as the bottom from the whipping scene downstairs. "I'm just saying, not everyone can get their rope shipped special from Tokyo. They still get to tie people up."

"Well, obviously," Harold says, "and you can tie people up with a variety of materials up to and including _barbed wire_ , that doesn't mean--"

The woman he's talking to perks up. "Now that's an idea."

"Okay, that goes on the rule list. No barbed wire," Grace says. John can't see her, but he recognizes her voice.

"These rules suck," the woman complains. "I feel targeted. Sameen, are you feeling targeted? No barbed wire, no electricity play with car batteries...."

"Well," Grace says, "there's a reason my rules' list alternate title is _Things Root is no longer allowed to do at Grace's parties_."

Sameen - the one who topped Root earlier - snorts. "Nah, I don't feel targeted. If Grace wants to make us a prompt list for private play, that's fine by me."

Root turns a smile on Sameen. "Aw, you say the sweetest things. Keep doing that."

Sameen looks at Root and says, deadpan, "Burnplay. Flesh removal."

Root jumps to her feet. "Sorry, Grace," she says cheerfully. "Places to be, things to do."

"I'm things now, apparently," Sameen mutters as Root drags her away.

"Oh goodness, those two." Grace sits down in Root's place, where John can see her. She smiles at him and tells Harold, "At least that stopped you and Root bickering. You realize she only says these things to get a rise out of you?"

"She as an ability approaching genius for getting under one's skin and _prickling_ ," Harold says. He doesn't sound very upset, however. His fingers trace lazy circle over John's collarbones; he turns and smiles when he meets John's eyes. "Back with us?"

John nods. He doesn't feel up to talking yet.

Harold helps him sit up, doesn't protest when John collapses wordlessly over him. John is careful, though, only keeping himself pressed against Harold, contorting himself to put his head over Harold's shoulders. The binding ropes are an annoyance now, keeping him from effectively wrapping himself around Harold.

"Do you want me to untie you?" Harold gently scratches John's nape.

John's eyelids flutter and close. "In a minute."

Annoyance or not, Harold put those ropes on him. John wants a few more moments to feel them, really remember the concrete sensations rather than a glowy mess of _want_.

"As long as you like," Harold says.

John frowns, eyes still closed. "Don't you want..." he trails off, realizing how clueless he might sound if he guesses wrong. "Don't people usually have more than one scene at a party?"

It's Grace who answers. "Depends on the people. I generally do, because I like having lots of different experiences, and I figure if I plan the party, I might as well have a good time. Harold usually has one scene, tops." Grace chuckles. "Pun only intended a little."

"Incorrigible," Harold says, but John can hear the smile in his voice.

"How'd that work out when you were together?" The question slips out of John's mouth before he can hold it back, still a little fuzzy. "Um. Sorry, I shouldn't assume...." he trails, awkward, then adds, "It's none of my business, anyway."

Grace makes a humming noise. "You're not wrong: we were together for a while. Engaged, actually. As for how it worked... well, it didn't. Hence us not being together anymore."

"It wasn't quite that simplistic," Harold says. "We found out we had incompatible needs, and that we were better off as friends. The frequency of scenes we each preferred was the least of it."

"For one thing, some of us like variety," Grace says. "I mean, how Harold still isn't bored with tying people up, scene after scene, I have no idea."

"Doesn't sound boring to me," John says, feeling himself turning pink. "I mean, not from this end."

He's rewarded by another caress. "I'm glad you think so," Harold murmurs, low and hypnotic. "I'd certainly like to do this again, if you're amenable."

That's a nice thought. John turns up his face, opens his eyes. Harold is smiling, just the tiniest hint of an expression. "I'd really like you to kiss me," John says.

For the briefest moment, Harold's smile flickers. "I don't feel comfortable doing that right now," he says, apologetic. "Ask me again once you're untied and have had a chance to regain your faculties, perhaps?"

John nuzzles into his neck. Harold permits that, even petting John as John mouths at the collar of Harold's shirt, messy and uncoordinated. "I've got enough faculties to make sense of what you're saying," John says.

Grace says, "He's got a point."

"I am conspired upon," Harold says. His arm wraps securely around John's shoulders, holding him close.

~~

The ropes come off him like hatching from a cocoon. John's skin feels new, sensitive. He's aching in his pants, has been for hours; he's pretty sure if Harold touched him sexually he would scream, and John isn't entirely sure if the idea is appealing or terrifying.

"I'm going to have marks on me for days," he says. His voice comes out rough, a satisfied purr.

Harold's eyes go glassy for a moment, tracing lines on John's skin. "So you are." 

John preens under the attention.

When Harold has coiled off the rest of the rope and stowed it neatly, and John has put his shirt back on, Harold says, "I meant it, about doing this again." There's a hesitant look on his face.

"I'd like that," John says, though it feels redundant. He's pretty sure people in neighboring states could tell he'd enjoyed that scene.

"I'd also like to see you in another set of circumstances," Harold says, and he's turning pink.

It's adorable, but John doesn't have the heart to tease Harold unnecessarily. "Like, on a date?"

Well. Maybe he can stand to tease him a little bit.

Harold squirms. "Well. Yes. If you want to take time to think about it...."

John doesn't. "I'm good next weekend, any time. You know how to reach me."

"That seems to be the case," Harold says softly. "I'm very glad of it."

This time it's John who has to look away.

~~

After spending all that time on the internet, on the black and red pages of Fetlife, in websites promising _Total devastation!_ , it's incredibly odd to John that kink can also look like this: sitting on a bench in Central Park, and handing a cone of vanilla ice cream to a man who smiles and thanks him.

The thought makes John laugh, and Harold inquires, so John explains.

"Yes," Harold says, ruefully. "This sort of thing is considered rather unphotogenic." He licks his ice cream delicately, and suddenly John is having difficulty breathing.

With effort, he looks away, trying to rein himself in. It's harder than he expected, harder than he rememers. John has been on a few dates since he left the army, with pretty women who smiled and were kind and didn't move him at all. 

Harold's hand finds John's. "Can I help?" Harold asks softly.

John weakly chuckles. "I'm fine. Just." He shrugs. "It's a lot." He feels silly saying that. They're having ice cream in the park, for fuck's sake. Dates don't get much tamer than that. 

Unexpectedly, Harold chuckles, too. "I can relate."

John looks up at him, raising his eyebrows.

Harold shrugs. "It's been a while since I've seen anyone outside of a casual scene." He licks a stray droplet of melting ice cream off his thumb. "Even longer since I've met anyone for whom I had, ah," he ducks his head, "hopes of a romantic or sexual connection."

The ghost of the kiss Harold wouldn't give him at Grace's party hovers over John's lips. "Is that what we're going for?"

"Well, yes." Harold looks up, blinking at John behind his glasses. "Of course, presuming you would...." 

He falls silent as John moves closer, closing the already small gap between them. John stops with barely a breath's space between their mouths, looking Harold in the eye. Waiting for Harold to give him permission.

Waiting for whatever Harold wants to give him.

Harold takes the final step, sealing the connection. It's only the briefest touch, fluttering over John's lips before moving away; then coming back for a soft, firm kiss, closed-mouthed.

John leans back and licks his lips, dazed. He tastes vanilla.

"I'm afraid I'm not much for public displays," Harold says, rueful. He runs his thumb over John's knuckles. "And as I mentioned, I like a slow pace in my courtships."

John feels a slow, beatific smile spreading across his face. "This is a courtship?" He dares to dart close and nuzzle Harold's neck again, the way he did at the party, then kisses below Harold's ear, giddy when Harold allows it. "Should I have brought flowers?"

"You already brought ice cream, and I meant that as a joke," Harold says. He sounds petty and irritable. John grins impossibly wide. "And at any rate, I'm supposed to be courting _you_." He must feel the way John stiffens in response to that, because he amends, "Or perhaps it should be a mutual courtship. Not a battle, but an attempt at determining compatibility."

John's smile feels abruptly hollow. "Don't have much of a track record at long term relationships."

Harold doesn't seem discouraged, though. He hesitates, then kisses the corner of John's mouth, hummingbird-quick and awkward. "Neither do I," Harold says, self-deprecating. "Let's hope we can learn from our mistakes."

John looks down, notes absently he needs to buy shoe polish. "I liked buying you ice cream," he says, quiet. "I can make you dinner, if you like." He'll need to buy some things for his apartment. Cooking implements. A second set of dishes.

Harold turns John's palm over in his hand, rubbing his thumb over John's lifeline. "One thing at a time," he says. "The ice cream is good. Would you like a bit?"

It should be embarrassing, leaning in public to lick an ice cream cone that another man is holding. But Harold's still got John's hand in his, and it feels like John is being given something more than mere sweetness in his mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end of the story proper - the next bit is going to be more of an epilogue/snapshot from their later relationship. I want to thank Morin, violentdaylight and especially Code16 for their amazing support while I was writing this. <3333


	5. Epilogue: Harold

Grace greets them at the door with a smile even more delighted than usual. It's a testament to how distracted John is that he doesn't remark on it: normally he's too observant to let anything out of the ordinary slide by.

At the moment, however, John is wearing a collar, a lead, and such a beautifully stunned, dazed expression that it's a marvel that Harold even spared the attention for Grace's response.

Harold hands John a bag with relevant necessities. "Go put your tail on. You can use the bathroom down the hall."

John gives him one lingering, longing look, then goes. Harold tries not to feel like he's disappointing John terribly by not putting the tail plug in himself. They both agreed they weren't ready for that yet.

The _yet_ is such an electrifying thought, though. Harold can tell it won't be long before they're ready. John will lie under his hands quivering, excited, _open_ \--

"So much for not doing anything undignified, huh?" Grace says with relish.

Harold bites his tongue and reminds himself he's lucky that she waited for John to be out of earshot to say so. Which reminds him: "Please don't mention my earlier aversion to pet play when John is around. Or any of my other aversions, come to that."

Grace snorts. "You mean, anything besides rope?" She shakes her head, and the look in her eyes softens. "I wouldn't. I think he's got enough anxiety issues without worrying that he's making you do things you don't want to do." Her smile turns impish. "I could tell him how impossible it was for me to get you to try new things, if that would help."

"I'd advise against that," Harold says with a sigh.

Grace takes his arm and leads him inside. Her house looks much like it usually does in a party mode, although some of the bigger scene props have been moved out of sight and there are many more pillows and blankets on the floor.

On some of these, there are people. Root is writhing on her back and shredding something to pieces with great and obvious glee while Sameen looks on with her usual deadpan; Zoe is in the back, engaged in a spirited discussion with Sirene, the newcomer who'd arrived on the kink scene shortly after John did. A few others that Harold doesn't know are, variously, going around the room on all fours, or standing up and making conversation.

"So how'd he convince you to change your mind?" Grace says, once she's lead Harold to a seat.

"He didn't," Harold says.

Grace's eyebrows rise. "He just asked and you said yes?"

Harold gives a small, discreet cough. "Not quite. I, ah..." He takes a deep, bracing breath. "I may have suggested the idea to him."

Grace's attempt at a serious expression cracks, giving way to a grin. "You didn't."

"I did," Harold says.

Thankfully, John shows up before Grace can demand elaboration. He's beautifully flushed. He has traded his pants for a pair of roomy cargo shorts, which Harold cut at the back to allow the tail to show.

Grace beams at John and says, "Aw, c'mere." John bends to let her reach his head, eyes slipping half-shut as Grace scratches him gently behind the ears.

Harold points at a pillow he'd placed at the foot of the chair. "Sit," he tells John, who obeys.

They had a discussion regarding this event and the state of John's knees. The end conclusion was that while John can - and does - kneel on occasion, it's best to avoid putting pressure on sore parts for play that John doesn't directly enjoy. John doesn't need to go on hands and knees to get what he wants out of petplay; therefore, no reason to hurt himself doing so.

So John sits, human fashion, at Harold's feet, and lays his head in Harold's lap to be petted. This is the opposite of objectionable.

This pleasant state of events continues until Root, as she is wont to do, decides to make mayhem. She saunters - on hands and knees, a feat Harold which did not know possible up till now - into their personal space, rubs her face against Grace's calf, and hisses at John.

John raises his eyes at Harold in mute appeal. Harold shrugs helplessly before moving to stare at Grace, who bites her lip and says, "Oh dear."

While Harold is willing to engage in petplay for John's sake, he has no desire to collaborate in whatever fantasy Root is currently enacting. At the same time, he did knowingly arrive at a pet-oriented party, and therefore has to abide by the rules. Which is to say: his options are to sharply tell Root to cease being antisocial (and he might as well tell her to stop breathing) or to ask Sameen to discipline her... whatever Root is to her. Harold doesn't ask. Neither of these appeal.

Harold is granted an unexpected reprieve in the form of Zoe and Sirene dropping by. "Look at that lovely pup," Zoe says, smiling. "Harold, would you mind if we borrowed him?"

A glance at John's face shows he's far from minding this suggestion. Harold remands his leash to Zoe, and admonishes her to play nice and return John safely. Sirene, meanwhile, distracts Root with a feather duster; Root happily shreds it, running her fingers - and the metal claw-rings she's wearing - through it.

Turning John over to Zoe was evidently a sound idea. He trails behind her, looking dazed and extremely happy when Zoe introduces him to her friends, who obligingly pet him and praise him.

"Okay, yeah," Grace says, at Harold's side. "I guess I can see why you suggested this to him. He is kind of a rescue animal, isn't he?"

"He's an intelligent, capable human being," Harold says.

Grace raises an eyebrow. She doesn't need to actually say out loud that the two statements are not mutually exclusive, and she's not wrong.

"It's hard not to give him things," Harold says quietly. "And whenever I do, it's hard to remember why I resist it the rest of the time."

After a short, silent moment, Grace says, "Please tell me you haven't tried to buy _him_ an apartment."

Harold winces and feebly says, "I thought we weren't going to talk about that."

She narrows her eyes. "That sounds suspiciously unlike a _no_."

"I have not," Harold says, with great dignity.

If this is mainly because he has yet to find an apartment that he thinks John would like, and partially due to his hope that John will at some point move in with him, that is Harold's own business.

Instead, Harold says, "He's very amenable to being put in nice suits." He sighs a little at the thought. That impromptu tailoring session was _fun_ : John reacts so extraordinarily well to close, personal attention of any kind. "And to being taken out and shown off in them; you ought to come with us to the theater some time."

Grace grins and kisses him on the cheek. "As soon as you buy me a ticket, rich guy. So, what, he put a limit to you spending money on him and you had to get creative?"

"The opposite," Harold says.

Across the room, Zoe has John lie on his back beside her, absently patting his belly while she talks to a friend. John has his head on her lap, eyes closed, a faint smile on his lips.

"He likes gifts," Harold goes on, thoughtful. "But he doesn't seem to care how much they cost, in either direction: he just likes that I spend time and attention on him. Researching experiences he might enjoy simply seems more effective than purchasing objects."

Describing John's reaction as _liking_ seems, on consideration, an understatement. John's quiet surprise and delight each time Harold gives him anything - from a hand-tailored suit to a battered second-hand paperback that he thought John might like to read - is both lovely and disheartening. It's not a reaction that speaks of familiarity with having affection explicitly declared for one.

It occurs to Harold that Grace might be justifiably offended, so he adds, "He's worked very hard at finding things that make him happy. It's not the research he finds difficult, you understand, but resisting the part of him that cuts him down whenever he tries. He's been very brave, trying as hard as he does to find joy despite it; and having found some, he finds it even more daunting to keep looking for more. I find taking over that role satisfying."

Grace leans against him. "So all I had to do to get you to take an interest in my kinks was to be unwilling to look into them myself?" There's a sting in there, despite her teasing tone. "No, huh, that isn't it," she says when Harold opens his mouth to respond. "You like that, don't you? Being his gateway to happiness."

"It's been a source of some concern for me," Harold confesses.

One of the reasons he loves Grace as much as he does is this: she doesn't immediately dismiss his worry as unfounded. She looks at John, thoughtful. "You've been trying to give him a support network independent of you," she says. "Would it help if I promised to take his side if you broke up?"

"Considerably." The word comes out with a gust of breath, with tension flowing away from Harold's shoulders.

Grace cuddles close. Harold puts his arm around her. She has him well trained. "I don't think that's likely to be an issue any time soon," she says. "As far as I can tell, you're both not just happy together, you're really good for each other."

Harold kisses the top of her head. "I very much appreciate you saying so."

They spend a few moments curled up together. Then Grace presses into his side, then pulls away. "Okay, go get him before you give yourself extra gray hairs."

Harold withdraws from her, walking towards John a little quicker than he normally would. Silly to respond this way, of course, to a completely utilitarian discussion of a completely hypothetical breakup; and yet, he breathes slightly easier when he has John's leash back in his hand, John gazing up at him with hazy pleasure.

Harold traces a finger down John's cheek. "Pay attention," he says. "I have an important question for you."

John's expression grows alert, focusing. At Harold's "Are you with me?" he nods sharply.

Harold loves this, how obedient John is for him, smart and capable. Harold asks, "Who's a good boy?"

John blinks, looking momentarily nonplussed. Then he blushes, eyes shutting briefly. His, "Is it me?" is whispered, like he's afraid to say the words out loud.

"Open your eyes," Harold says. When John does, Harold gently grips him by the neck and shakes him. "Yes," Harold says, "yes it is. Yes, you are."

John closes his eyes again, looking almost like he's in pain: like a martyr in raptures. He turns his face to Harold's wrist, running his lips over the sensitive skin there. Harold holds John by the collar with one hand, putting the other where John can press fervent kisses to it.

"Oh, my dearest," Harold murmurs, helpless with tenderness. "Perhaps we could go home, now?"

John's eyes fly open. "Yes." In his voice there is nothing but certainty.

~~

On the drive to Harold's place, John keeps his eyes on the road ahead and his hand on Harold's thigh. Harold bites his lip and is glad he's not driving.

They kiss as soon as they're inside the door, John crowding Harold against the wall, sweetly greedy.

"Take off your clothes for me," Harold says when they pull apart for air. "Let me see you."

John's utterly unselfconscious as he flings his clothes off. He still has the tail plug in, jutting obscenely out of him. Harold swallows. 

"Come to the bedroom," he tells John, "and kneel for me there."

There's a pillow on the bedroom floor, laid in place just for such an opportunity. John's face shows no pain at the stress the position puts on his injuries: his eyes are on Harold, dark and excited.

Harold sits on the edge of the bed. He's aching inside his pants, but he can't take them off, not yet. "Touch yourself."

John does, his eyes sliding shut, his mouth opening to emit a nearly silent moan. He's beautiful, always beautiful but never more so than when he lets himself feel good, lets Harold make him feel good.

"The next party we're going to," Harold says, "I'll tie you, and run my hands all over you right where everyone can see, so that everyone knows how lovely you are for me, how well you take everything I do to you."

John's eyes snap open. He comes in three more strokes, gasping soundlessly.

One day, Harold will make him scream. Harold is confident of this.

He waits for John's breathing to even before saying, "Will you sit at my feet again? You can take the plug out first, if you prefer."

John comes to him without delay. Harold sinks his hand into John's hair, luxuriating in the soft, dense strands, in John's resulting moan. He grabs John's hair close to the scalp, tilting John's head so that John's cheek rests against his thigh and John's eyes are on the wall opposite, not seeing Harold.

Keeping his grip firm, Harold undoes his pants, groaning when he gets his hand around his cock finally.

John whimpers. 

If Harold could, he'd fold the sound into a little box and take it out to admire it on cold days. "What is it?" he asks.

"I want to see," John whispers.

Harold's cock twitches. He hums in enjoyment. "Do you? What else do you want?"

"Want to suck you." John's voice is raw, plaintive. "Want to make you feel good."

Harold's heart aches for him. "You do," Harold tells him. "You make me feel so good, John." He gasps once, twice. "So good. I love hearing that you want me."

John blindly nuzzles Harold's thigh. "Please," he says, and the word is sweeter like this, John knowing he'll be denied but asking anyway just so Harold has the pleasure of hearing how much John _wants_ , "I want to, Harold, _please_."

Harold comes with a muffled curse.

"I want to lick your hand clean," John says.

Harold's cock gives one last, valiant leap, a few last droplets of come trickling out. "That enough for now," Harold says feebly. "I'm not as young as I was, Mr. Reese."

It doesn't yet feel right to let John lick his hand (although soon, _soon_ \--), so Harold goes to wash his hands and change into sleeping clothes in the restroom. John enters after him, emerging soon clean and sans plug, wearing boxer shorts. John flops down on the bed with a huge satisfied sigh; Harold smiles and joins him, curling close.

"Did you mean it?" John says, eyes closing. He'll be asleep soon, in all likelihood. "About the next party."

"Of course." Harold strokes John's nape, watching John shiver at the touch. "Unless you'd rather not?"

John crowds in, kissing him hot and deep. "I'd rather yes," he says, once they're done. "I'd rather everything."

There's satisfaction in this, too: that John knows he can let go that much, let Harold mind the boundaries for both of them. John trusting Harold not to push beyond what John is comfortable with.

"One thing at a time, Mr. Reese," Harold says, and kisses John's closed eyelids, skin fragile and soft under his lips. 

It's such a contrast to the rest of John's strong, scarred body; and yet, it's just as indicative of who John is: a survivor, immensely resilient... and still so capable of being hurt - and of being loved.

John looks at Harold, eyes half-lidded, radiating contentment and sleepy adoration. He looks like a cat sleeping in a sunbeam.

Harold gathers him in an impulsive bear hug. "Go to sleep, Mr. Reese," and just like that, John does.

**Author's Note:**

> Nogoaway drew [some incredible art](http://nogoawayok.tumblr.com/post/143970369166/im-so-gone-over-theragnarockd-s-rope-fic-guys) for this :DDD

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Sanctuary (Fanart)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6928771) by [chargetransfer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chargetransfer/pseuds/chargetransfer)
  * [Out Of The Darkness We Reach (Podfic)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10792968) by [Linzoid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Linzoid/pseuds/Linzoid)




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